


5X1 Snippet

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon, Comfort, M/M, SPOILERS FOR 5X1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 19:39:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the camp, at night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5X1 Snippet

Merlin's eaten a piece of cheese slapped on dry bread. Hard bread. Bread you could break a tooth on. Harsh fare. Like hopes can be dashed with the brush of a hand, a snap of a vision, with the pall cast by dimming eyes on a future that Merlin's always trusted in.

His eyes home in on Arthur's tent. Because the knights are still being loud outside. It's all jokes and sharp peals of laughter with them. It's all here and now, take the world for what it is, no time for reflection. Arthur's explained them to him. The reason why. Why they're so.

But Merlin can't cope with them tonight. Not tonight. Nature's eerily silent while men feast. The wind's down and doesn't even whistle trough the trees in the forest beyond. Stars are little pinpricks of light that shimmer and shine as though they might die. The moon's cutting a pale swathe across the encampment, making Merlin wish he were it. Up there and not sentient.

He follows the trail it shines for him, goes to Arthur's tent. It's empty, void, for the King is still with his men, watching them carouse, their silent guardian, their irrepressible leader.

Their brother, their father, their overlord.

Merlin settles on a blanket not far from the foot of Arthur's pallet, he pulls the pelt he's been given against the cold up to his chin and closes his eyes. His arms tucked by his side, turning his head to avoid the lumps in the ground that stick out, he concentrates on breathing evenly. His shoulders twitch; his back complains.

But it's small matters, he's used to this.

He falls asleep, dreams; snatches of broken images come back to haunt him.

He turns away from them and they pursue him.

He legs it, runs from them, moans, screams his fear from deep in his lungs. He screams his rage and indignation at them.

When he wakes, it's to focus on Arthur, who's sitting at his feet, still in chainmail, eyes bright in the candlelight Merlin didn't light.

There's an honest shine to Arthur's eyes, his arms around his knees, his shoulders wide, but curving around his body in a gesture that's familiar, known.

"There's still something wrong with you, isn't there, Merlin?" Arthur says, sounding put out but with an odd edge to his tone Merlin'd call friendly if he didn't know about the gap existing between king and peasant, palace and stalls. "My brilliant speech by the pond didn't affect your mood at all, I see."

"It did," Merlin says, lips twitching with a smile, eyes watering with tears. "It gave me nightmares."

Arthur pushes at his legs with his booted foot. Merlin can't feel the impact because his lower body is wrapped in the pelt. They both snort as a result. "Really, though, why are you being so morose?"

"It's nothing," Merlin makes an effort to say. He sniffles, wipes at his nose with the sleeve of his worn tunic. He takes his time before giving any answer. After all he can't say he's already feeling the pang of loss. The lancing pain of it as if he's being gutted. As if 'it' had happened already and Merlin was alone, no lord, no king, no master to complain to. To whinge at and nag. No Arthur to tease and pester. He can taste the ashes. See the ghost of this man he knows so well. It's as if he's gifted with double vision, reality giving way to prophecy, and he's talking to a shadow that will disappear with the first flickering of dawn. "Nothing really."

Because if Arthur goes, Merlin will too, making the gap nothing.

Arthur looks at him long and hard. At first he directs an assessing gaze at Merlin, as if he's trying to crack a mystery, but then it softens, melts. Arthur's eyes dance with something Merlin can't define beyond knowing it's not merriment that's worked its charm on him. His lips turn up but it's not mocking. They quiver as if he's trying to check a smile. A daft one, a brilliant one. Then Arthur clears his throat, ducks his head and Merlin's sure that they're done for tonight, that they will move on and never mention Merlin's contrariness again. But then Arthur moves.

Swift as thought, swift as the warrior he is, Arthur grabs him by the neck, fingers digging into his skin, pressure points that find muscle and tendon and even hurt a little, even though they bear the imprint of Arthur.

Merlin startles. Arthur angles his head and fits their mouths together, kissing him like lovers do, bringing their tongues together, even though he gentles it soon after, rubbing their lips together, pressing at Merlin's, wet suction drawing Merlin's upper lip into Arthur's mouth, softly, like the wings of a butterfly right before he draws back.

Merlin's breathing hard, his eyes surely wide.

Arthur says, "Sleep well, Merlin," even as he bundles him under even more covers than before.


End file.
